


In The Morning

by jehanjetaime



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Platonic Cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 03:25:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5401202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehanjetaime/pseuds/jehanjetaime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire remembers the first time he awoke to Enjolras asleep on his floor. </p>
<p>---</p>
<p>Enjolras has no idea when he started sleeping on Grantaire's floor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Grantaire

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually a revised version of something I wrote five or six years ago (during college classes when I probably should have been paying more attention).

Grantaire remembers the first time he awoke to Enjolras asleep on his floor. It was a winter night, wind howling through stone alleys and people everywhere doing the best they could to keep warm, keep alive. All throughout Paris, buildings shook. That was what had roused him from his drunken stupor – the sound of his ancient shutters clattering against his window. He rolled out of bed, and took a few shuffling steps to shut them. There was a pile of clothing on the floor, which wasn't unusual. Grantaire moved past it, paying no mind to the mess. Until the mess moved. He stopped and blinked the sleep from his eyes. His shutters crashed open once more, and the room shone in the moonlight. 

The mess was Enjolras. Enjolras laying on his floor, sleeping soundly. Grantaire slowly approached his sleeping statue, his hero. He was thinking not of how odd this situation was, but of how cold Enjolras must be on the floor, with no blanket, no pillow. Grantaire leaned over and gathered the extra blanket from his bed. Gently, he lay blanket upon he sleeping god. Enjolras barely stirred. Grantaire climbed back into his bed and slept.

By the time Grantaire woke again, to the sun leaking in through the shutters he had never closed, Enjolras was gone. The blond did not mention it, not in any of the times they had seen each other since. So neither did Grantaire; he wouldn't even know how to approach the subject.

A week later, it happened again. Grantaire stumbled out of bed for one reason or another, and there he was, Enjolras, curled up in the same spot on the floor. Yet again, Grantaire covered him up, and in the morning Enjolras was gone.

As the weeks passed, as passions swelled, speeches were given, and the people's hearts stirred, Enjolras' nightly visits happened more and more frequently. One calm night, Grantaire lay on his back, head on his pillow and tired eyes unable to close. He heard the familiar sound of his door creaking open. Grantaire did not need to look to know who it was; there was no one but Enjolras it would be. Floorboards whined underneath him as the young man settled into the spot that Grantaire now considered his. Grantaire waited for the movement to cease.

“Apollo, what are you doing?”

There was a flurry and movement, and the door slammed. Sleep never found Grantaire that night.

Enjolras did not return all throughout spring, and Grantaire's nights returned to solitude.

Spring was turning to summer the evening that the wind was howling through the streets once more, this time accompanied by pouring rain. It pounded along the Paris cobblestones with such ferocity that even Enjolras agreed it was too much, and canceled the Les Amis gathering. As he lived right above the cafe and would have no trouble getting home, Grantaire made no moves to leave. He sat at his table while Enjolras, determined as always to work even without the company of his peers, poured over papers. The rain pushed against the walls viciously. Grantaire looked out a glass pane over his glass of absinthe.

“The weather's too much for even you,” he mused quietly. “Even marble as fine as yourself would not survive this storm. Stay tonight.”

Enjolras glared at him, and Grantaire knew that he was thinking of the floor, ashamed of whatever had brought him there so many times.

“At least tell me why.” Grantaire raised his glass in Enjolras' direction; the liquid inside sloshed pleasantly. For that moment, only liquid spoke – the rain outside, the absinthe inside. Enjolras huffed and looked back to his papers.

“You won't tell,” he said, just as Grantaire was beginning to think that he would not receive a response. “I chose you because you won't tell. Combeferre wouldn't understand – or perhaps he would understand all too well. Courfeyrac would not give me a moment's peace. For once, relying on you was the only logical course.”

Grantaire drained his glass. With a quiet grunt, he pushed himself to wavering feet and sauntered over to Enjolras. He stood opposite the younger man and bent at the waist, hands flat on the table. “But why come to anyone at all?”

Another pause. “Nightmares,” Enjolras finally mumbled. Grantaire could hardly hear him; it was an unbelievable change from the usually loud and pronounced man. He's both honored and concerned. “I keep having horrible, fiery, bloody nightmares. I wake up, shaking and sweating, every night. Only company chases them away.”

It's a hard thing to understand, that someone so strong could be plagued by images from his own mind. Grantaire rounded the table and knelt at Enjolras' side. He rested one hand on the student's knee. “You never needed to sneak in and sleep upon the floor, Apollo. My bed is your bed.”

Enjolras raised an ink-stained hand and pushed Grantaire's dark hair out of his eyes. “Foolish.”

After a pause to enjoy the rare touch, the cynic stood. He stretched and crossed the room, where a tall, thin staircase led to the rooms he rented. “I'm going to bed.”

He could not hear any sounds over the wind; it would be impossible to know if Enjolras remained downstairs. Grantaire changed into a nightshirt and climbed into bed, facing the doorway. He had just started to doze when the door opened. Enjolras stood in the frame, defiant look upon his beautiful face. He crossed the room, lingering in his usual spot. Half in jest, half in hope, Grantaire held the blanket up. A silent offer for Enjolras to join him. For Enjolras to take the offer stunned Grantaire; he could have fallen out of bed. Yet he did not. He only lowered the blanket again once Enjolras was settled. Their chests pressed together. Grantaire wound an arm around Enjolras' lithe frame. Neither of them spoke, but Grantaire had a smile on his face as he fell asleep.

In the morning, Enjolras was gone.


	2. Enjolras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras' turn.

Enjolras has no idea when he started sleeping on Grantaire's floor. One night in the late, late fall, the nightmares began – terrifying visions of blood and fire, full of horror and fear which sunk so deep into his bones that he could not sleep, could not stay alone. It happened repeatedly for two weeks before Enjolras would admit even to himself that something was wrong with him. But the dreams would not cease, and he started to avoid sleep. He would wander all night, doing anything to keep himself awake.

Eventually it all caught up to him, but he simply couldn't go back to his own stark quarters. So he thought of all the options open to him, listed pros and cons. He couldn't stay awake forever. What he needed was company, someone to be there when he woke, so he had a point of reference for reality. He had to find someone to share a room with. Some were right out. Bahorel seemed too strong, too solid to understand. Courfeyrac would pry. Feuilly hardly had a place to stay most nights. Combeferre...well, it was something the philosopher would want to go over and over until Enjolras lost his temper. Joly and Bossuet lived together, and between them and Musichetta, it would be too much, too crowded for him.

So that left two. Prouvaire and Grantaire. Prouvaire seemed the obvious choice. A sensitive soul, a nurturing, understanding presence. A soft heart, but a strong head. However, Enjolras knew that his plight would be almost immediately immortalized into a poem. Prouvaire would never tell anyone that Enjolras came to him at night, but Enjolras would hear countless verses, Prouvaire spouting ballads of 'a grown man of flaxen hair, clinging like a vine to a wall' every single night.

So, Grantaire. As annoying and useless as the man was, he held the most important quality for this situation. He would keep quiet, keep it a secret. He wouldn't laugh, because if Enjolras played his cards right, Grantaire wouldn't even notice.

That was what brought Enjolras to sneak into Grantaire's room. He rested on the floor near a run down desk, and despite the cold he dropped off quickly to the sound of Grantaire's quiet snores. When he woke that early morning, there was a blanket over him that had certainly not been there when he fell asleep. He scowled; Grantaire had caught him. So Enjolras did not return for a week.

When he did come back, so did the blanket.

It ended up as a common enough thing for him. Enjolras feared at ever turn that intoxication would lead Grantaire to tell of his visits, but it never happened. His friends never needed to know.

No, when Grantaire brought it up, they were alone, in his room. Enjolras had just settled to the floor when Grantaire spoke.

“Apollo, what are you doing?”

Enjolras fled. That time, he did not return. The nightmares persisted, and Enjolras just made do with as little sleep as possible. Grantaire kept his secret, until one night when a heavy, start of summer rain was fierce enough for him to send his friends home from the Musain. Yet he remained at his table, working into the night. Grantaire was a few tables away, and Enjolras wished that he would just go upstairs. But he only sat, and drank, and watched. It was nearly a relief when a gruff voice broke the silence.

“The weather's too much for even you. Even marble as fine as yourself would not survive this storm. Stay tonight.” Knowing exactly what Grantaire was thinking about, Enjolras tossed a glare his way. He would not answer. 

“At least tell me why.” Grantaire saluted him with that half-full glass. 

Enjolras huffed and looked back to his papers. “You won't tell,” he said, the words swollen in his throat until he knew that he had to speak. “I chose you because you won't tell. Combeferre wouldn't understand – or perhaps he would understand all too well. Courfeyrac would not give me a moment's peace. For once, relying on you was the only logical course.”

He heard a sound that could only have been Grantaire finishing his drink, then footsteps to the other side of the table. Enjolras looked up as Grantaire set his hands on the surface. “But why come to anyone at all?”

Enjolras felt as if he could have thrown up. Words rose in his throat instead, with none of his usual power. “Nightmares,” he finally mumbled.“I keep having horrible, fiery, bloody nightmares. I wake up, shaking and sweating, every night. Only company chases them away.”

Everything felt thick, and Enjolras was grateful when Grantaire's motion broke the tension. He came around the table and knelt at Enjolras' side. A hand came to rest on his knee. “You never needed to sneak in and sleep upon the floor, Apollo. My bed is your bed.”

Enjolras' hand seemed to move of it's own accord, up to Grantaire's brow. His fingers brushed deep brown curls from chocolate eyes. “Foolish.”

He just watched as Grantaire stood, stretched, and headed towards the stairs that lead up to his rooms. “I'm going to bed.”

And so he did, leaving Enjolras alone. There was none of relief he hoped for in solitude. Enjolras knew that he was going upstairs, but he put it off. Sorting papers, resorting them. Eventually it all became an exercise in futility, and he left the papers as they were. With a sigh, he stood and ascended the stairs. He opened the door and moved to his spot. Yet, in the bed, Grantaire held the blankets up. An invitation.

Enjolras meant to lay on the floor. He really did, as a matter of pride. Still, he found himself crossing the room. He crawled into bed, feeling blessed at the warmth. His chest pressed against Grantaire's. Then one of those thick, strong arms slipped around him. Vowing that this was the end of his weakness, that tomorrow he would start life anew, Enjolras rested against Grantaire and fell asleep.

In the morning, Enjolras was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!


End file.
